


Gunpowder and Ruin

by DarkWaterFalls



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Bakery, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Hidden Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5419037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWaterFalls/pseuds/DarkWaterFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacques stands stiffly, back against the hoardings set up around the back of the patisserie, cap dangling from the tips of his fingers... He’s surrounded by crates of supplies, hidden from view, huddled from the eyes that he’s sure will be searching for him by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunpowder and Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esapastrnak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esapastrnak/gifts).



> Sw'awesome Santa fill for esapastrnak!
> 
> They wanted a Regency AU, with Bitty calling Jack "Mr Zimmermann", so I hope this meets your expectations!
> 
> We have a French!Jack, called Jacques for ease (even though I'm completely aware that that isn't a correct translation), and a baker Bitty, trying to find their way around a relationship in two languages.
> 
> All spoken French is in italics, English is not.
> 
> And let us all take a moment and imagine a French-accented Jacques whispering "Eric".

Jacques stands stiffly, back against the hoardings set up around the back of the patisserie, cap dangling from the tips of his fingers. The temporary structure had been added recently to allow more storage as the celebrations approached, to allow the bakers and chefs inside extra space to provide for the feasting tonight. He’s surrounded by crates of supplies, hidden from view, huddled from the eyes that he’s sure will be searching for him by now.

 

His uniform is stiff with dye, new for the ceremony, he’s sure to bathe tonight and find streaks down his back, his legs from sweating so much today. He brushes some dust – flour – from the sleeve, and shifts, feeling the tension in his thighs and shoulders from standing at salute whilst the dignitaries passed into the hall. He should be at the celebrations, someone would be missing him. His father is being honoured, a new  _General de Corps d'Ármee_ , and since Jacques was a newly promoted  _Capitaine_ his company was expected to honour his father by being present at the ceremony. Jacques had barely made it through the commendation exercises without visibly trembling, and only just managed to avoid actively flinching when the celebratory gunfire rang out. He can still smell the gunpowder, almost taste it on the back of his tongue, and his mind trips back into the cadence he learnt when he began to fire weapons. Sure, sharp, and distracting; taking him away from the terror and the loud noises, dissolving them into a quick rhythmic task.

 

He pulls out a handkerchief, and mops his face again, convincing himself that he just needs a few more minutes, his hands need to be shaking just a little less, he can straighten his spine and march back towards the celebrations after another moments rest. As he takes a deep breath and stuffs the handkerchief back, he closes his eyes and tries to centre himself, mentally preparing himself for re-joining the celebrations. As he breathes, he tries to shut out each of his senses, concentrating on the feeling of air slipping in through his nostrils and out through his mouth, he then opens his mind to what he can smell - freshly baked bread – and that leads him to the taste of it on his tongue. His mouth begins to water as he realises how hungry he’s become. Jacques allows his awareness to extend outwards, begins to hear his breathing, and the sounds of the distant celebrations. He can feel the sweat prickling on his forehead again, gathering at his temples in the sticky summer heat, ready to drip down his face. He thinks about how tense his neck feels, can sense the muscle around his collar bone developing bilateral knots, sending tension down his back. He rolls his shoulders back to try and loosen them out and then rests his palms on the harsh grain of the wood planks behind him. Jacques slowly opens his eyes and relaxes back against the boards.

 

As he settles against the building again he hears the back door of the building - the one that leads to the impossibly hot bread ovens - open and then slam shut again, and he hears a slightly cruel chuckle as someone walks away.

 

The door swings again, making him jump with the second staccato burst of it slamming.

 

Then a tired voice, higher than his own, rings out, “ _Mister Michel! Mister Michel, please return.”_ The accent is atrocious, and the young man sounds half terrified, but mostly awkward in his use of French. Jacques sticks his head out in time to see the young man rushing towards the miller’s apprentice, a burly young man who stands at least a head taller than and half as broad again as the young man.

 

He steps out fully and watches as the miller’s apprentice, Michel, stops and turns, crossing his arms and looming over the younger man. He speaks quickly, “ _What now, little baker_?” and is obviously deliberately slurring his accent to make it more incomprehensible.

 

The young man stammers out, “ _We don’t have enough, it’s not what we ordered_.”

 

Michel frowns, putting on an exaggerated, confused expression. “ _I didn’t understand that, little baker. Do you want to fetch someone who can actually speak?”_

The young man looks mortified, flushing all the way out to his ears, mouth half-opened in shock and hand bunching in the floury half-apron at his waist. Jacques decides to step in, if only to stop this stupid farce, to help the young man who was obviously terrified. He doffs his cap and steps forward, clearing his throat to catch their attention. The apprentice looks slightly stunned, and the baker has an expression on his face like he’s hoping the ground might swallow him up, Jacques at least recognises that one. “ _May I help, what’s the problem?”_ he asks pointedly.

 

The apprentice squares himself up, “ _This stupid little Englishman can’t count, or read. Keeps getting at me about flour bags.”_

Jacques can see the baker’s face pale, understanding at least some of the sentence, and preparing himself, obviously expecting a rebuff at least, and a sharp smack at worst. Close up, Jacques can see a yellowing bruise on his cheekbone, and he feels the sharp snap of sympathy. It’s quite obvious what’s been happening here. He nods at the apprentice and asks,  _“Please wait a moment.”_

He turns back to the baker, who still looks softly worried to Jacques, and asks in English, “Please explain what has happened. Slowly please, I’m not good.”

 

The flush floods back into the young baker’s face, hopeful for the first time, and he takes a deep breath, “Sir, the order is eight bags short of the flour for the patisserie. I know what was requested, Sir.” Jacques see the resigned set of the baker’s mouth, and hears the note of indignant annoyance. “I checked because I’ve already been cheated this week, Sir.”

 

Jacques nods, mind stumbling over the translation, and pulls off his cap again to turn to the apprentice. He smiles blandly, “ _There appears to have been a communication problem, I don’t believe you delivered the correct amount of flour. I may sadly have to investigate this further, as I was asked to check up on the deliveries for the breakfast celebrations in the morning.”_ Jacques gestures the apprentice back towards the alleyway door with one hand, inviting him to precede him back into the bakery.

 

The man stares, unmoving, at Jacques.

 

Jacques drops the arm, and tucks it behind his back. “ _Or, you could complete the delivery as requested, and stop me reporting you and your master for dishonesty.”_ he says crisply.

 

Quickly as anything, Jacques pulls the baker back behind him, and eight bags of flour are dropped on the cobbles at his feet in quick succession from the cart.

 

As the apprentice beats a hasty retreat, the young baker places a hand on Jacques arm and peers around and up at him. “Sir, I can’t thank you enough.” he whispers.

 

Jacques stares down at the smaller man, nods, and asks, “ _Speak in French please? My English is very bad.”_

The younger man flushes again, but covers it by leaning down to hoist up a flour sack, showing unexpected strength, and replies,  _“My French is also bad, I’m sorry. I thought I knew enough before I arrived here.”_

_“Your accent is also atrocious, where did you learn to speak like that?”_ Jacques asks, following the baker to the door and holding it open as the baker props it open with a bucket. Jacques quickly tosses his cap onto one of the crates beside the door, then undoes his jacket to lay it down beside it. He then picks up two flour sacks and follows the baker inside, already feeling the lightest he’s felt all day.

 

 

***

 

 

Jacques is settled on the bed in Eric’s cupboard-sized room, boots kicked off and feet dangling off the side. The blanket under his fingers is itchy, but warming. He wonders how Eric can sleep at night, in this small, draft-riddled room. The room is mostly impersonal, except for are a few trinkets on a low shelf: a couple of books in English that Jacques has flicked through and a small varnished box that Jacques knows contains letters from home.

 

Jacques is glad that he’s kept in touch with Eric, he provides an escape for Jacques from his regular life, from the training schedule, from the meetings and appointments, from the expectations that weigh him down and settle on his brow. He comes to see Eric regularly, has become a familiar face to those he works with, initially the excuse was to check up and make sure the miller wasn’t still short changing him. It became more serious when Jacques started helping him develop his French, coaching Eric through conversations, making sure he knew more than just the names of kitchen utensils and baking ingredients. His accent was still appalling, inherited from Eric’s French nanny, who Jack realises was probably from a village rural enough to be unnamed. Or at least without one that’d been written down.

 

In return, Jacques got roundly abused for his English skills, and bullied into conversing with Eric and redeveloping his mostly-lost linguistic skills from his teenage years.

 

Eric himself is perched on a stool, almost bent in half as he leans towards the storage chest that he’s currently using as a writing bench. Jacques discovered that, whilst Eric could both read and write competently in English, he’d never learned to write in French. So Jacques had teased him, wheedled him into learning, and sits with him as Eric painstakingly copies from books Jacques borrows, squinting at the type all the while.

 

Eric had complained initially, but Jacques had noticed the blush Eric tried to hide when he asked how Eric was supposed to write to him, if either of them were ever to leave? Eric had been much easier to convince after that, settling with a soft look in his eyes.

 

Sometimes Jacques reads to Eric in French, with Eric tucked up against his side to see the page, following Jacques finger as he identifies each word. Eric returns the favour in English, but Jacques doesn’t need to see the page, and just savours hearing Eric’s voice.

 

Eric sits up, placing his pen down and reaching up as he stretches his back. Jacques eyes follow the line of his body, and linger on the strip of skin revealed by Eric’s movement. He lets out a mighty yawn and smiles softly at Jacques before saying, “ _I don’t know why you put up with me Mr Zimmermann, all I do is sit and write whilst you’re here.”_

Jacques still feels that same bubble of amused pleasure whenever Eric calls him “Mr Zimmermann”. Eric had noticed Jacques half-hidden flinch when he’d finally realised Jacques rank, but was too flustered to call him Jacques, so had settled on “Mr Zimmermann”. It made Jacques more comfortable each time Eric says it, makes him want to sink into the warmth that seems to surround Eric, enclosed in this small room that smells of the bakery and the both of them. “Eric,” he responds softly, watching as the involuntary blush creeps up Eric’s cheeks at Jacques saying his name, “I’d take my time spent here over any I spend elsewhere.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jacques did eventually get redeployed again, to some front, some small skirmish that smells of blood and gunpowder. The air feels bitter around him, deeply cold and unpleasant, as he attempts to huddle closer to the fire for warmth. He opens his most recent letter from Eric, edges already soft from being folded and re-folded, and imagines he can smell that small room again, and hear Eric’s laugh in the fast swoop of his handwriting.

 

That small room doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in any form that Jacques would be familiar with, it would be cold and dark without Eric. Jacques inhales again, and can smell the damp of rotting leaves, and concentrates on that over the smell of men, of war and horses, of blood and ruin, and tries to imagine himself elsewhere, tries to imagine that room again.

 

Jacques knows that Eric won’t be there once he returns to France. Eric has returned to London, returned to home and family, returned somewhere where Jacques is unsure he’ll ever be able to follow.

 

He doesn’t have any paper left, so Jacques writes letters to Eric in his head, stores up his words of warmth and home to see him through the terrors of the battlefield. He imagines escaping from his current surroundings every time he flinches at a cannon shot, and every time the wind blows the smells and sounds of skirmishes back towards him, he thinks of Eric creeping around the bakery and showing him the ovens, the smell of sweets and bread around him.

 

 

***

 

 

The hospital is grey, always feels damp, and always smells of blood.

 

It doesn’t matter that his room is warm, his sheets are clean, his bandages are changed and he’s bathed regularly. The impression remains, dancing on the edge of his vision and looming up in endless nightmares as he curls up inside himself as best he can for sleep. He usually wakes with a jolt to the smell of blood in his nostrils and the sensation of stabbing pain, frantically checking his bandages to ensure he’s not damaged anything.

 

The days seem to slip by in a mixed haze of pain interspersed with doses of laudanum, and the taste of gunpowder always lingers on the edge of his awareness.

 

He can barely see the golden sunlight streaming in, despite the wide unshuttered windows, and he knows it should mean something, that it should connect to something… but he can’t reach it. He can barely count each passing day.

 

 

***

 

 

Jacques recoils from the sound when his final heavy trunk slams unexpectedly down onto the floor of his new chamber, but the man moving it doesn’t notice his reaction, and is already walking out to deal with the rest of the packages brought in from the docks that morning.

 

Jacques closes the door, turns the key in the lock and begins to undress in the chill of his rooms. Despite the roaring fire in the next room, they all have a feeling of disuse, of stillness; the smell of dust conspicuously absent from tickling his nose, but hinting in the air, suggesting a maid passed through recently. But the bed is clean and fresh, the floor is swept, the chimney is clear and there is warm water in the jug to bathe with.

 

Positively luxury, as far as Jacques is concerned right now.

 

He strips out of his travelling clothes, and begins to prepare to wash the sea-travel salt and grime away. He gasps as he tugs his shirt over his head, the light movement of the fabric igniting pain along the purpling scars along his side, the stretch of long-underused muscles complaining. He grits his teeth as he wets the sponge and begins to clean up for that night.

 

 

***

 

 

Officially, Eric is supposed to be attending the party as a guest of honour. Officially, this is supposed to be the first night that Eric’s patisserie prodigy takes over some of Eric’s burden, so Eric can stand back and enjoy the fruits of his several years of labour. Or watch others enjoy the fruits of his labour, more accurately. He is supposed to mingle with the homesick French elite of London tonight, ply them with baked goods and creme patissiere-laced desserts, and convince them to patronise his premises in future.

 

But, as usual, things are not going to plan. He is, yet again, lamenting the fact that one half of his kitchen speaks French and the other half English. And that still, despite his best efforts, no one seems willing to change that fact.

 

He sighs, resigned, as he looks down at his new red overcoat. He dances his fingers over the shiny buttons and begins to take it off. He throws it over the back of a vacant chair, rolls up his sleeves, and steps in to assist the preparations.

 

 

***

 

 

Jacques grits his teeth again against the pain as the young woman leans onto his arm, against his side and against the scars. She’s the sister of one of the noblemen present tonight, one of many different sisters or daughters, all looking for a hand in marriage. All unsubtle queries about home and fineries, fielding her rosy idea of returning to France to start afresh, standing a little too close for proper society and running her thumb along the sleeve edge of the uniform that he’d reluctantly agreed with the consulate to wear that night.

 

He tosses back the remains of the glass of wine in his hand – sour, too warm, not palatable – before he extracts and excuses himself from her, quickly directing her towards the dance floor where they’re calling sets for a group dance.

 

Jacques places the glass on a small table at the side of the wide room, before slipping towards the shadows around the bay windows at the back. Now that he’s away from the crowds he can feel the winter chill in the air, the glass cooling quickly in the night, frost preparing to creep across the grass outside. He breathes in, feels the temperature change catch in his lungs, and feels the ache of the scars on his side as he inhales.

 

Music starts up from the other side of the room, distracting him from the cool air and drawing him back into the room. His uniform feels ill-fitting on his shoulders, and it’s more than just the muscles under his skin that have wasted from his long convalescence. Jacques chafes at having to don it again, hates that it and his name are the only reasons why he’s managed to get over to England, that they’re the only reasons behind him being allowed to leave active service and take up another position.

 

That the only reason he may get to see Eric again is because of the strings the he could pull.

 

That, after so long, he’s still unsure whether Eric will want to see him again.

 

Jacques frowns down at the floor at that thought, scuffing one heel on the dark wood. He has to try, he just has to try.

 

He looks up and catches a small figure in red entering the room. Jacques is moving towards him before he knows it.

 

 

***

 

 

Eric is grabbed from behind, half-lifted and pulled away just as he enters. He’s horrendously late and arriving without any sort of fanfare. He gives a strangled sort of yelp as he’s dragged and then held fast against the side of the man who’s pulled him there. He feels shame blush his cheeks red, embarrassment at being taken away from the event so quickly.

 

He’s ready to shout, kick and get angry, until Eric looks up. He sees dark hair, and eyes of soft blue and gasps, “Mr Zimmermann!” before he can stop himself.

 

Jacques lets Eric away from his side, a flush climbing his cheeks and a small smile on his face. “Eric,” he says softly, “I couldn’t let you out there like this, what else could I do?”

 

Eric frowns, half confused, and partly overcome at hearing Jacques again, hearing him say his name with such fondness. “I beg your pardon, Mr Zimmermann?” he asks, sounding surprisingly breathless.

 

The smile widens, and Jacques now looks positively delighted, “Eric, if you’re to make a good impression, you need to brush off the flour before you arrive!”

 

Eric gapes, and then starts stammering, looking down at himself and then twists and pulls to look at the back of his coat. Surely enough, he’s streaked with flour from the kitchen preparations that evening. He pats ineffectively at the front of the coat, examining how much flour he’s removed and exclaims, “Goodness, it seems that you can’t take me anywhere!”

 

Jacques is now positively beaming, and raises a hand, and says, “Allow me.”

 

Jacques wraps and arm around Eric’s waist, and Eric swears it’s his imagination suggesting that Jacques hand lingers a little too long between each pat that loosens the flour stuck to his coat. His face is burning again, but he’s undecided whether it’s over the indignity of the situation, or who it is patting down his floury overcoat.

 

Soon Jacques pulls back, and steps away from Eric, putting some distance between them. But Eric has decided that that isn’t acceptable, that he needs to be closer, so he moves forward and places a hand on Jacques forearm. “Thank you Mr Zimmermann, whatever did I do without you?”

 

Jacques ducks his head and then shyly smiles back at Eric, before answering with cheek, “it seems that you’ve barely survived. It’s a good thing I’ve arrived in time.”

 

Eric’s fingers tighten on Jacques’ wrist slightly, before he pulls away once he sees Jacques wince in pain. Eric frowns, eyes catching the new lines under Jacques’ eyes, the thinness of his wrists, and the stiff way in which he is holding himself. Worry creeps into his voice, “Mr Zimmermann, why are you here?” he asks gently.

 

Jacques breaks the eye contact, looking down at where Eric’s strong fingers had been closed around his arm. He feels bird-fragile, brittle and liable to break. Barely of any use. He grimaces, flexing his wrist and shaking out the arm. “I had hoped to see you,” he admits, “I’ve wanted to see you for a long while.”

 

Eric smiles softly, before confessing, “I’ve missed you, Mr Zimmermann, whilst you’ve been gone.”

 

Jacques feels something shift inside him, unlocking and unknotting itself at Eric’s expression. He feels suddenly warm, even in this cold alcove captured by winter frost, as if the sun has finally risen. “I think I needed to leave to understand where I needed to be,” he says, leaning closer into Eric’s space, “I needed to find my way back here.”

 

Eric’s smile widens. “Mr Zimmermann, are you staying here in London?”

 

Jacques nods, deciding to admit the truth, “I’m happy to say that I can now stay wherever you will be.”

 

Eric barely notices the sounds of the event going on around them, tucked in their own little alcove by the window, but he does feel the race of Jacques’ pulse as he places his hand carefully on Jacques’ opposite wrist. “Come back with me tonight,” he whispers, “we have much to talk about.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jacques – eyes closed - can feel the grain of the table under his fingertips, the ridges well-worn and smooth as he runs his nails lightly against them, concentrating on the slight difference between what each finger was feeling. His right hand is lying flat on the letter he’s just finished reading, the paper beginning to feel slightly damp under the press of his palm. Jacques focuses on the counterpoint between the sensations, ridged wood and smooth paper, and then takes a deep breath in before opening his eyes.

 

Before he raises his eyes, he can already tell that Eric has moved. He’d been peeling and chopping potatoes for their evening meal when Jacques had opened the letter, the swift slice-and-clatter sound of the paring knife creating a familiar soothing background sound to the evening. The knife is silent now, the air is still, and Jacques knows that Eric is standing beside him. Eric’s hand is resting on the table, bare inches from his own, and - all at once - Jacques feels guilt wash over him again.

 

Jacques usually savours these nights, where he and Eric have organised for the house staff to go home early, where Eric prepares food and Jacques reads to him in French – papers, letters, books, anything - as he waits.

 

This is one of the few nights where they get to sleep in the same bed without sneaking around.

 

Where the house is empty, no one but the two of them present, no one else rushing to prepare food, clean up, bank the fires, light lamps or make up beds. Just the two of them, together.

 

And Jacques is ruining it.

 

He turns slightly in his chair, opening his legs and extending his arm out towards Eric, and Eric takes it as the invitation it’s meant to be. Eric slips into his embrace, placing a careful knee on the chair between Jacques’ legs as he straddles his thigh. Eric brings up his hands, one resting on the collar of his shirt, and the knuckles of the other rasping against his stubble, before Eric opens his hand and cups his cheek. As Eric lowers his head to touch his forehead to Jacques’, Jacques slides his hand up Eric’s back to hold him closer and begins to breathe in the comfort that the contact brings him. He imagines Eric seeping into his skin, and his muscles relax more with each passing moment.

 

After an indeterminate amount of time, Eric asks, “ _Jacques, what is it?”_

Jacques clears his throat, then murmurs,  _“My father… wishes for me to return to France.”_ He runs a finger along the edge of the letter, and then takes a deep breath.  _“I believe he wishes for me to find a wife. He’s made his request plainer this time.”_

 

At that, Eric slumps, Jacques can feel the muscles of his back shift under his hand, and can feel the shift of Eric’s weight on his thigh. Eric doesn’t say anything, but his posture and downcast eyes tell Jacques more than he needs to know. They’ve discussed this already, but Eric still feels guilty for being in an easier situation than Jacques. Eric has siblings, brothers that his father can rely on, and Jacques does not.

 

Eric’s eyes drift closed, and his fingers tighten on Jacques’ collar, and Jacques watches as his expression closes further.

 

Jacques slides his hands until they’re cupping under Eric’s rump, and urges Eric up onto his feet again, Eric’s hands shifting to stabilise on his shoulders. He pushes his knees between Eric’s and then pulls him forwards until he’s straddling Jacques’ lap. Eric’s arms go around his shoulders as he buries his face in the crook of his neck. Jacques cups the soft back of Eric’s head and then presses a kiss to Eric’s hairline, breathing in the comforting scent as they ground each other.  _“I won’t leave you.”_  Jacques promises.  _“I’ll choose to be disowned before I choose to leave you.”_

Eric lets out a stuttering breath and huddles closer to him, and Jacques runs his hand comfortingly up and down Eric’s back. They’re not voicing the doubts that they both have, their well-worn worries about their future. How they chafe at having to hide, how they know that this is the only way they’ll survive together, how they have to talk to each other formally whenever they’re away from their home. Titles like “Mr” and “ _Capitaine”_ losing their meaning the longer they stay together.

 

Eric’s arms loosen from around Jacques’ shoulders, and he stands from the chair, bending down at the waist to run the tip of his nose down Jacques’. Jacques follows the motion and tips his face upwards to meet Eric’s lips in a soft kiss, familiar and comforting.

 

 

***

 

 

Jacques always wonders what he did to deserve Eric. How a chance meeting led to them staying connected, staying together. He can’t imagine a day without him now, even if the comfortable domesticity of their lives is broken up by regularly having to pretend that their relationship is a lot less close.

 

But here, behind closed doors, he can bask in the warmth that is his and Eric’s relationship. He can hold him close, taste his mouth and lick the sweat off his skin, and enthusiastically worship whatever it is that brought them together.

 

Eric is straddling his thighs again, in a much happier situation than earlier in the evening. He still has a flush high on his cheeks from where Jacques brought him to orgasm just minutes before, still slightly elated from the high that Jacques pushed him to. When Jacques shifts his leg slightly, he can feel Eric shiver from the sensation of hair rubbing against his sensitive inner thigh.

 

Jacques is always torn when Eric decides to prepare himself; does he want to watch Eric’s fingers, or his face? Does he want to enthusiastically observe and help Eric prepare, or does he want to bask in the glory that is Eric with his head thrown back and his lips parted in pleasure?

 

He decides to watch Eric’s face tonight, see as he pushes himself further for Jacques, as he bites his lip against crying out, only to release it, bitten-red, a moment later. A moment later, Eric gasps slightly, withdrawing his fingers and reaching over to the small pot of oil on the night stand again. Once coating his fingers again, he reaches for Jacques and wraps his fingers around him. Jacques surges up as Eric leans down to meet him, lips meeting in the middle and free hands clasping at each other, intertwining on the bed beside Jacques.

 

As Eric works himself down slowly onto Jacques, breathing very carefully, Jacques rubs his knuckles up and down Eric’s ribs to comfort him. Eric slowly relaxes and settles back with a soft smile.

 

Jacques looks up at Eric, suffused with warmth, and feels struck by his beauty all over again, softly backlit by the golden light from the lamps in the room, and whispers,  _“I love you,”_ up at him.

 

Eric leans forward, then gasps softly at the movement, before murmuring, “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm clareithromycin on tumblr, come say hi!


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